


Careful What You Wish For

by Always_Dreaming



Category: MotoGP RPF, Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Gen, Racing Accident, mentioned Marco Simoncelli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 05:45:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6691990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Always_Dreaming/pseuds/Always_Dreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After all the accusations, arguments and recriminations between Rossi, Marquez and Lorenzo, there is a terrible accident on track…</p><p>A cautionary tale.</p><p>Note: I posted this story many weeks before the death of Luis Salom. It all seems like a terrible prediction now :(</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There was a storm rumbling in the distance. Black clouds lowered over the hills, lightning struck occasionally and it was probably raining over there. But it would hold off for the race, so the riders lined up on the grid as usual—Marquez, Lorenzo, Rossi in that order. Staring straight ahead, making their usual adjustments to the bikes and themselves, they waited for the lights to go out. Each wishing to win at the expense of the other two.

At last with a deafening roar, the bikes leapt forward, the three enemies pushing against each other, gaining a metre, losing a metre, straining to reach the first corner first.

A slip, a wriggle and they were all tangled up, foot pegs and feet, arms and handlebars grating together in a tangled mess, the bikes smashing and scraping against each other then throwing the riders apart like a whirlwind, each spinning helplessly away from the eye of the storm. Marquez was thrown off the furthest, he was flung from his bike into the gravel trap, turning over and over til he came to rest. When he got up, his shoulder felt as if it was on fire and he had to hold his arm against his body tightly.

No points this race then! Cursing, he turned back to see what had happened to the other two. Rossi stood at the side of the track, waving his arms, looking down at something. Marc gasped. It was Lorenzo, lying on the tarmac face down, unmoving.

“Get up!” Rossi shouted. “You just want sympathy! Get up!”

Marquez’s stomach turned over and he strode towards the scene, every step jarring his shoulder.

Rossi’s voice rose higher. “Get up! Get up, Lorenzo!” He bent towards the slumped figure, shaking his fist. “We ‘aven’t finished our battle!”

Marc accelerated into a jog. “Don’t move him, Vale!” He reached the Yamaha rider just as he was about to grab Lorenzo’s arm. The fallen Spaniard still hadn’t moved. Vale crouched down.

“Jorge! Jorge!” he shouted, as if that would wake him. “You do not die unless I say!”

“Vale, stop! Leave him!” Marc pulled at the Italian’s arm, even though it made his shoulder burn. Crunching feet sounded as the marshals at last reached them. They’d brought protective bolsters, the ones they always brought to a serious accident. Partly to stop fallen riders being hit by other bikes, partly to preserve their dignity, partly to stop prying eyes seeing horrific injuries. But Jorge wasn’t a gruesome sight, he was just lying there as if he was asleep.

“He’s dead!” Vale’s sudden shriek made Marc jump. “It’s happening again! I am cursed! I kill Sic, then Jorge!”

“No, no, it was an accident!” Marc hugged Vale, in agony but Vale’s anguish was stronger.

“I am being punished for murder! Jorge! JORGE!” he shouted in vain.

“No! No, you’re not!”

The marshals fussed round, getting a stretcher, then the track doctor strode up to the two riders. People in the crowd began to scream and cry, sensing a horrific accident as the marshals carefully lifted Lorenzo’s body onto the stretcher. Marc looked at Vale and his face was a mask of horror—pale, twisted, tear stained.

“Jorge! Jorge!” the Italian screamed. He seemed to be getting heavier in Marc’s arms, then he realised Vale had fainted, so he and the track doctor lowered him to the ground.

 

For months afterwards, Marc woke in a cold sweat, heart pounding, hearing again the terrible sound of Vale screaming ‘Jorge! Jorge!’ and seeing the fallen rider just lying there. Sometimes he woke screaming too, in which case Alex or his mother would rush in to comfort him. He preferred Alex, because all he did was hug him and tell him funny stories about what his friends had got up to lately to cheer him up. When his mother rushed in, she cried and fussed, saying, “I told you racing was dangerous, so did Grandmother and you wouldn’t listen. Maybe now you will.”

 

***

 

Marc and Dani sat in the waiting room of the psychiatric ward. Marc’s shoulder was better now with just the odd twinge, and Dani was quiet and thoughtful.

“It is all your fault,” he said after a few moments.

“I know.” Marc sighed. “If I hadn’t tried to get past Jorge into the first corner, he’d still be racing.”

“Not that. That was an accident. I meant you and Vale dragged him into your stupid argument last year and ruined everything.” Dani glared at his team mate.

“But—” Marc stopped. “I’m sorry for that, but…it’s too late now.”

“I know. But this has killed Vale. He had nightmares about what happened to Sic, he bottled it all up and this accident made it all come out again. You know what happened that day in Sepang.”

“Yes. The same weekend I injured my eye.” Marc chewed his lip.

Dani threw up his hands. “Never mind your eye. It’s better now. Jorge won’t have that chance.”

There was a pause as they both sat deep in thought.

“What shall I say to Vale when we go in?” Marc broke the silence.

“I don’t know. I really don’t. I don’t know what state he’ll be in. You know he completely lost it after that race? Did you also know he had to be sedated? That’s why he’s been here for so long.” Dani gestured round at the room, all white, clinical and calm. “So don’t annoy him or argue with him, okay? I’m fed up with your stupid arguments. Look what happened because of them. Jorge won’t be racing with us again and—” He didn’t add, “it’s all your fault,” again because Marc had tears in his eyes and his lip was trembling.

“Mr Rossi is ready to see you now,” said a nurse as she entered the room. The two Honda riders nodded to her, and followed her out.

Dani entered the sunny room where Vale had been living for the last few months. There was a vase of pink roses on the windowsill, and the Italian sat in a chair looking out over the grassy hillside. He turned to greet his guests and they both gasped. His face was so much thinner than before the accident, greyer, his eyes without the mischievous spark. He wore a blue tracksuit, which was better than the dressing gown Dani had feared.

“Hello, come in.” He gestured to the other chairs and waited for them to sit down.

“How are you?” Dani ventured. Marc was clutching his arm so tightly it hurt.

“I am much better, thank you. It is good to see you. Would you like coffee?” Vale’s smile was a pale shadow of what it used to be.

“I’m sorry!” Marc burst out. “I’m sorry about everything!”

Vale paused, staring at him. He sighed. “It is alright. It is too late for sorry but I am sorry for what ‘appened too.”

Marc let out a shaky breath and Dani patted his hand. “Come on.” He led the young Spaniard to the chairs and they each sat down.

Vale fussed round making coffee, talking about nothing much—what he thought of the races which had taken place after Jorge’s accident, paddock gossip, other gossip. Dani let his words flow over his head, wondering what he was really thinking.

The Italian put their coffees on the small table and sat down.

“We should be friends again,” he said. “It is more important than winning.”

Dani felt tears welling up and sniffed. A quick look at Marc showed he was in the same condition.

“Yes,” he said. “We owe Jorge that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sic= Marco Simoncelli. RIP.


	2. Chapter 2

Vale headed in the direction of the graveyard to visit Jorge—it was the least he could do after what happened. The grassy area full of gravestones was calm and serene, but it made him feel sick. We’ll all be there one day, he thought, and paused to take in the scene. 

But not yet.

He turned away from it towards the hospital—he needed to see someone. He went to the lift and pressed the sixth floor button, watching the lighted numbers rise. When he got out of the lift, a smiling nurse greeted him. 

“What a nice surprise. You know your way to room twenty-nine?” 

Vale nodded. “Thank you.”

It was hard to walk down that corridor, but he forced himself to, finally reaching the door. Exhaling, he knocked and a female voice answered, “come in.”

He stepped into the room to find a nurse sitting by the bed with Jorge’s mother and father.

“Hello,” he said to them all. Jorge’s parents looked at him with hard eyes, but the nurse smiled.

“Come to do more damage?” snapped Senora Lorenzo. “You weren’t satisfied with—”

Her husband shushed her. “It was an accident.”

“I’m so sorry, I—” Vale stuttered.

“We need a break. Come along.” Senor Lorenzo ushered his wife out of the room, leaving Vale with their son and the nurse.

The machines around Jorge beeped as he breathed in and out. He looked as if he was asleep, serene and relaxed but much paler even than usual.

Will he ever wake up? Vale wondered, his heart sinking. He looks so helpless. What have I done?

“I’m sorry, Jorge,” he said. “I’m sorry we dragged you into our argument. Marc is sorry too. And Dani is angry. You know how the little man gets when we fight.”

No reply, of course, just the endless beeping.

Vale started talking about racing gossip, anything he could think of to fill the silence and cover the machine noises. The nurse sat quietly, looking away to give him privacy.

Suddenly one of the machines began beeping faster and an alarm sounded. The nurse leapt up and hastened to her patient. Other nurses and a doctor rushed in. Vale felt sick, his heart pounded. This can’t be happening! Jorge!

The doctor snapped sharp instructions to the nurses. Vale watched from the corner, desperate to keep out of their important business.

Jorge’s eyelids fluttered and Vale gasped. The Spaniard coughed, his eyes opening with a cringe at the bright lights. Nurses moved around him, helping him come round gently and slowly.

Vale tried to keep his breathing quiet as his team mate woke up. Like a miracle.

“Can you come back in a while?” asked a doctor, and Vale tiptoed out, not wanting to be a burden.

 

Half an hour later, after the Lorenzos had been and gone, Vale was allowed back into the room even though two nurses were still there taking notes. 

“Just stay with him for a few minutes, he’s very tired,” one instructed quietly.

For a terrible second, he thought Jorge had died again, as his eyes were closed, but when Vale sniffed, he opened them slowly. And smiled slowly. He would do everything slower than before.

“I’m here, my friend,” said Vale, unable to stop the tears falling. He patted Jorge’s limp arm and he twitched his head in a “come here” motion so the Italian leant forward again.

“Stop crying like a girl and pass me my drink,” he whispered. Vale chuckled shakily, picked up the cup with the special straw and held it to Jorge’s lips.

 

A week later, Vale visited him again.

“’ow are you?” He sat on the chair next to Jorge.

“Much better. I can move my toe.”

“Your toe? That’s fantastic.”

“It’s a start.”

Vale looked at the paralysed body of his former rival. Team mate. Friend. And tears gathered in his eyes.

“You’re crying again. Stop it. Get my drink.” His old imperious tone made his team mate smile.

While he was drinking, Vale took the opportunity to speak. He wasn’t sure if Jorge had heard him the last time. “I’m sorry I dragged you into the argument between Marc and myself. It was him, the little shit, who did it all.”

Jorge pushed the cup away with his mouth so Vale moved it. The Spaniard shrugged with his face, his only way of expressing himself these days. “Dani told you to say that, did he?”

Vale smiled. “He is the wisest of us four.”

“Maybe.” 

“So, you can move your toe? Did they say how long til you can move everything?”

Jorge screwed up his face again. “Months. Years. Who knows? But I am alive and I want to make the most of it.”

Vale leant forward. “We thought you were dead that day.” He patted Jorge’s arm. He wouldn’t tell him how seeing his slumped body had reminded him of Sic and sent him over the edge into madness with endless nightmares and guilt.

“Well. I’m alive. So you are unlucky.”

“We are not. We are so lucky to have you back.”

“Now I can give you racing advice?” His mouth hitched into a lopsided smile. “As an onlooker?”

“Advice? That will be the day!” Vale’s voice rose and he smiled.

“I could start a wheelchair racing series,” mused Jorge. “Yes.”

“They think you’ll be able to use a wheelchair soon, then?” His heart felt lighter now. “You can do wheelies.”

“For sure. I will do it, whatever they say.”

Vale smiled at his determination. “Me, Dani and Marc will ‘elp you, yes? We’ll get sponsors—and—and whatever you need.”

Jorge beamed, then gasped. “Quick, lift the blanket. I moved both toes!” Vale hurried to obey his demand. He saw all toes on the Spaniard’s feet wriggling and cried out in delight.

“A good sign. I am getting better.” Jorge’s face had a rosier glow than when Vale had arrived. The Italian went to give him a gentle hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to all the MotoGP fans and riders who wish crashes and death on each other. Be careful…because death is coming for you soon enough. You might not be as lucky as this in real life.
> 
> EDIT: I'm very sad that the death of Luis Salom today (3rd June 2016) has kind of proved my point. Don't wish death on people. Don't hate people for stupid reasons. Because they might die before you can reconcile with them.


End file.
